The Last Big Job

Chapter Nineteen

Two days later, on a clear, fresh, chilly morning, Detective Inspector Henry Christie stood outside the public mortuary situated behind Lancaster Royal Infirmary. He stamped his feet in order to keep them warm and drank weak, hot tea from a plastic cup. He was accompanied by the overweight, sexist, racist DC Dave Seymour. Seymour was munching a bacon sandwich bought from the hospital canteen and the slapping noise his mouth was making as he ate made Henry feel a little unwell.

‘ Eat quietly — that’s an order,’ Henry said.

‘ Yes, boss — sorry.’

Throughout his career, Henry had met, mingled with, arrested and put away some very major players. He had chatted on first-name terms with bosses from the biggest crime families in England, he had observed American Mafia chiefs, shouted at serial killers and rapists and child murders and, on occasion, been face to face with desperate contract killers and corrupt officials, all of whom would have been more than happy to put a bullet into his head.

But today — so he had been briefed, warned, whatever — he was about to meet probably the wealthiest, most ruthless and most successful criminal he had ever come across in his life. A man who operated every conceivable form of criminal activity Henry could think of, from drug smuggling and assassinations on an international scale, to arranging massive art thefts across Europe, to pimping in the white slave trade — intelligence had it that this man had set up routes for young kids out of the former Yugoslavia and into paedophile networks, particularly in Holland and Belgium. He arranged thefts, burglaries and handled stolen goods across all borders. He bribed officials and when they did not respond, he had them murdered. He intimidated businessmen and when they didn’t kow-tow, he had them murdered too. He was intent on continually expanding his criminal empire and when he met resistance, he killed. This was something Henry Christie had personally witnessed when Jacky Lee had been executed right in front of him in a transport cafe.

Henry knew virtually everything about this man, yet those facts, he knew, should not blind him to the reason why he, Henry, was about to meet him that morning at Lancaster Public Mortuary.

The man was coming to make a formal identification of a body on a slab, a body believed to be that of his grandson.

The man’s name was Alexandr Drozdov. He was the most powerful member of the Russian Mafia. The name of the grandson was Nikolai Drozdov: he had been brutally murdered.

Henry knew he would have to play this one by ear. It was usual in murder investigations to attach a liaison officer to the bereaved family. Just because the family were criminals and from Russia, should they be denied such an offer? This was one thing Henry was wrestling with; another was the capacity of the Drozdovs to react to Nikolai’s murder in a way Henry would not want. That is, to go and discover the murderer themselves and then assassinate him by way of revenge. Henry had to talk Alexandr out of such a course of action, which he knew would not be easy.

Dave Seymour moaned, ‘Where the hell is he?’

‘ He’ll be here soon.’ Henry had arranged for a traffic car, motorcycle escort and a Mobile Firearms Team to pick up Drozdov from Blackpool Airport where the Russian’s private jet had landed. As far as he knew, things were running on time. The firearms team had been provided as the result of a specific request from Drozdov, via Interpol — who had informed him of his grandson’s death on behalf of Henry. Wherever he went in Russia, apparently, he was always accompanied by a protection unit. The implication was that this ‘protection unit’ consisted of armed personnel. Because Drozdov would clearly not be allowed to bring such a unit of his own thugs into the UK, Drozdov had insisted on an armed police guard because he was always in danger. Despite feeling that he was pandering to the ego of a common criminal, Henry fixed this up. Better that, he reasoned, than Drozdov’s goons turning up armed to the back teeth with Kalashnikovs and having to deal with that.

‘ DI Christie receiving?’ Henry’s PR asked him from his jacket pocket. It was Lancaster Comms calling him. He acknowledged. ‘Information received from Control Room: two minutes, repeat, two minutes. Understood?’

‘ Yeah, thanks for that.’

Two minutes and Drozdov would be here. Henry emptied the last of his tea down his throat and crushed the plastic cup in his palm, tossing it away. He went into the mortuary to check that everything was set up in the viewing room.

Nikolai’s body was laid out as tastefully as possible in the circumstances, ready to be identified, a wide white bandage wrapped skilfully around his head to hide the horrendous injuries caused by the bullets which had been pumped into it.

Henry went back outside as the police convoy turned down the driveway towards the mortuary.

The two minutes had passed very quickly — almost as quickly as the last two days.

When a murder investigation kicks off, no matter how run of the mill or extraordinary it might be, all hell breaks loose. It is the responsibility of the SIO to get hold of everything and pull it all together. There is information and intelligence overload, all of which has to be constructively managed. A policy book, recording all the decisions taken and the reason for them, has to be started. The team needs to be drawn together and led, IT systems have to be put into place, people have to be allocated jobs according to their skills. Their welfare needs to be catered for because it is true that in the first seventy-two hours, everyone is up for it, wanting to get the case solved; after that, overtime becomes a burden, families start whining about absences and enthusiasm wanes. Intelligence cells have to be formed. And a myriad other things have to be considered, not least of which is sticking to legal and procedural guidelines. All of it is down to the SIO.

When Henry went into work with Danny the morning after their first night together — in separate cars, obviously — he had no idea he would end up as SIO on one of the biggest cash robberies ever in the UK, together with a multiple murder.

He had a good idea there was a major enquiry in the offing… but not quite so gi-fucking-normous.

He knew everything that had happened the previous day, and on top of that was the discovery of the security van decorated in blood found in Staffordshire with twenty million pounds and four guards missing from it. A police pathologist inspected the interior of the van and concluded that someone had probably died inside it, or had at the very least been seriously wounded. Where this had happened had yet to be established, but Henry had a nasty feeling that Lancashire was the host.

One of the first things he did was speak to the security firm and find out what route the vehicle should have taken. Then he sent a traffic cop down to Staffs to inspect the tachograph to see what clues it could provide as to the possible location of the robbery. Even Henry, a non-traffic-orientated cop, knew that anyone with a bit of knowledge of tachographs could retrace journeys quite accurately.

That was done by 7.30 a.m., at which moment a grumpy FB walked in, not pleased at having been woken several times during the night.

Henry briefed him quickly. After that FB made the decision that, subject to the views of Staffordshire police, Lancashire would pick this up and run with it, as everything pointed to something big having gone down on their turf. If it later transpired it had happened somewhere else, then it would be handed over with alacrity.

When Henry asked FB who the SIO would be, the older man fixed him with one of his famous stares, designed to ensure the recipient’s anus twitched.

‘ You are that man,’ FB said. ‘It would be crackers to bring anyone else in, even though it’s still early doors. You have all the information, the holistic view, the experience and above all’ — here FB smiled thinly — ‘I trust you to get results.’

‘ I should’ve stayed off sick.’

‘ Don’t be a fucking Nancy — get on with it.’

Things began to move when he walked — still shell-shocked — back into the Incident Room in the LEC building to tell Danny the news. Before he could speak she waved a message pad under his nose, just received from the police in Morecambe.

Henry read it, took it in, murmuring the words out loud: ‘“Four bodies found apparently shot to death in a warehouse on the White Lund Industrial Estate. Two identified (not formally) from documents found on them. One: Gary Thompson. Two: Graham “Gunk” Elphick.”’ Henry raised his head and swallowed. ‘Gunk,’ he repeated, stunned by the news. ‘Bloody hell!’

‘ Yeah,’ Danny said.

He puffed out his cheeks. ‘We need to have a look at this now,’ he decided, whilst experiencing a very unusual feeling down in the pit of his stomach at the sight of Gunk’s name and the possibility he might now be dead. He was slightly ashamed to discover the feeling was one of high elation.

They were at the scene within the hour.

Even from first glance, Henry worked out that a tremendous gun battle had taken place. The question was — had anybody survived and left the scene? And additionally, was this slaughter connected with the theft of twenty million pounds?

‘ If it isn’t,’ Henry mused to no one in particular, ‘then I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

He was able to identify the bodies of the other two dead people immediately.

Nikolai Drozdov and Don Smith. But no Billy Crane, Henry thought.

He paused over Gunk’s body, wondering whether to kick it.

Even as they were inspecting that blood-splattered scene of carnage, having great fun working out what had gone on, testing out theories, angles and the like, another message came from the police at Carnforth, a small town to the north of Lancaster. A stolen HGV had been discovered that morning on a lorry park on the A6, near to Junction 34 of the M6. The police officer who attended the report soon found the lorry was empty — with the exception of four dead bodies on the trailer, all shot, and all dressed in the uniform of security guards.

The convoy came slowly down the gravel driveway. Two motorcyclists were leading, followed by a plain car, a liveried traffic car and another plain car bringing up the rear. The plain cars were carrying the firearms team — eight officers in total — and the traffic car, driven by a PC accompanied by a detective from the Murder Squad, was carrying the dignitary. On this occasion, a Russian gangster.

At the last moment, the motorcyclists peeled away and zoomed back up the drive to seal the entrance. The remaining cars stopped in the mortuary car park.

The firearms team poured out of their cars, each officer taking a pre-determined point to protect the traffic car, MP5s at the ready, their eyes roving surrounding buildings and open spaces for possible threats. Henry had briefed them first thing that morning and was empathetic to their feelings. Despite body and head protection, they were very vulnerable indeed. Drozdov was the class of target that if anyone seriously wanted to take him out, a bunch of armed cops, however well-trained, would not be able to stop them.

Henry now felt vulnerable. He wore no protection — but, he thought wryly, if someone did take a pot shot, there was no way he would be throwing himself into the line of fire.

One of the rear doors of the traffic car opened and a huge bear of a man with a beard got out.’ He was much younger than Henry had anticipated, which was puzzling. Henry offered his hand in greeting, but the man blanked him out, went to the opposite door and opened it.

The bear gently assisted out a small, frail old man and set him on a pair of very unsteady feet; he held him there and reached into the car for a walking frame which he unfolded and placed in front of the old man.

This, Henry realised, was Alexandr Drozdov, grandfather of Nikolai. He could not have been over five-two tall, was incredibly wizened, his skin pure white, but not albino; he was hunched over with a pronounced curvature of the spine. He looked a hundred years old. Henry gawped stupidly at him, unable to imagine this pensioner as a ruthless gangland warlord with a worldwide business empire. He did not look capable of taking a deep breath. Looked like a good meal would kill him. Not for the first time, Henry’s stereotypical expectations of what a gangster should look like were dashed.

Henry held out his hand again.

The old man’s eyes flickered up and that gave the game away. Henry firmly believed the eyes were the window to the soul, and Drozdov’s pair of steel blue ones made Henry freeze inside. His bony, almost transparent hand, which Henry could easily have crushed, was in direct contrast to the fire which burned behind the eyes.

‘ Mr Drozdov,’ Henry said slowly, ‘I’m-’

‘ I know who you are,’ Drozdov cut in sharply, speaking perfect, accentless English. His voice was forceful and authoritative, belying — again — his appearance, which was that of a doddering old man. ‘Detective Inspector Henry James Christie. You are the Senior Investigating Officer in charge of the investigation into the death of my grandson.’ He watched Henry’s reaction and smiled. ‘I make it my business to know such things. Now let us proceed. Serov,’ he said to his huge companion, ‘stay with us.’

‘ Yes, that is the body of my grandson, Nikolai Drozdov,’ the old man said. Henry saw him intake breath sharply and steady himself on his walking frame. Then Drozdov shuffled out of the identification room, backed by the huge bear-man. Henry drew a white linen sheet over Nikolai’s face and stepped out after Drozdov.

‘ I must speak to you,’ he insisted.

‘ Why? What can you do for me that I cannot do for myself?’ he responded, not pausing on his unsteady route back to the traffic car.

‘ Mr Drozdov,’ Henry said sternly, ‘I am investigating the murder of your grandson as well as that of seven other people. You must talk to me. If nothing else I need to inform you of the legal procedures and give you details of when you can expect to be allowed to take Nickolai’s body back to Russia.’

‘ Allowed?’ Drozdov snorted, stopping in his tracks, turning slowly, but angrily on Henry. ‘Allowed? My grandson will accompany me back to Russia now.’

‘ No, he won’t. This is England and you will abide by our rules, regulations and laws. You do not call the shots here like you do on the streets of Moscow. Nikolai’s body will remain in this country until released by the coroner — and believe me, I have a great deal of influence in that decision.’

‘ Are you trying to intimidate me?’ Drozdov rallied.

‘ Merely stating facts.’

Astonishingly, the old man wilted like a daffodil, hanging his head. Serov reached out, ready to catch him if he fell. Then Drozdov pulled himself together.

‘ Nikolai was my only living blood relative.’ A tear formed in the old man’s eye. Henry’s heart went out to him fleetingly, but he spoke to him in the same, measured tones he had used before.

‘ In that case you will be eager to take him home at the earliest opportunity.’

‘ You are a hard man, Detective Christie.’

‘ No, you’re wrong there, but I have a job to do and I’ll do it to the best of my ability.’

Drozdov nodded in graceful acquiescence. ‘In that case, we shall talk.’

Old he might have been, but very cautious he remained — which was probably why he had lived to such a grand old age, Henry surmised. Drozdov refused to talk whilst sitting in the back of the traffic car, which was Henry’s suggestion. Nor did he wish to go to Lancaster police station, where protecting him would have been easier. Instead he said he would be willing to sit in the back of one of the firearms team’s cars because it was less likely to have been bugged — and only then if Henry agreed to be searched by Drozdov’s travelling companion. Henry, who was sick of being searched for wires, said OK reluctantly.

After a quick but thorough pat-down, Serov grunted some thing which must have meant Henry was clean.

Serov then assisted Drozdov into the car and after quickly briefing the firearms team to be patient, Henry got in beside him.

‘ I’ll lay my cards on the table,’ Henry opened. ‘As you know, I am in charge of a multiple murder investigation, coupled with a robbery, and one of the victims is your grandson. And this is how I shall view Nikolai — as someone’s grandson. It is a terrible tragedy and no one, from whatever walk of life, should lose a grandson in such a manner. To me, murder is the most serious crime there is and I will do everything possible to bring the offenders to justice. That’s my solemn promise to you.’

This had been the seventh time of saying something similar in the last forty-eight hours. As SIO, Henry thought it only right and proper for him to visit the immediate families of all the victims, those of the security guards, and those of Thompson and Elphick, and to make this promise to them. When he spoke to Elphick’s father, though, he had not really meant the words, because he was glad the bastard was dead.

Drozdov said, ‘Thank you for that.’

‘ However…’ Henry went on.

‘ Ahh.’ The old man raised his head knowingly. ‘Here comes the “but”’

‘ No, no buts. What I want to say is this. I know full well who you are and what you are, Mr Drozdov. What I want to do is make a plea. I know that you and your organisation are probably capable of tracking down and killing the person you think is responsible for Nikolai’s death. I beg you not to do that. If you do know who is responsible, please feed that information to me and let the legal process take its course. Let me convict the offender. Let them suffer a life in prison. Killing is too good for such a person, too easy.. ’ Henry’s words drifted away.

‘ An interesting little speech,’ Drozdov said with a trace of pity. ‘You make assumptions about me which could be upsetting. But, in the confines of this car, I will admit you are correct. It is the plan for my “organisation”, as you call it, to hunt down and destroy Nikolai’s murderer. You see, in Russia, we believe blood for blood. Whoever killed my grandson will die for it. I have already lost my son in similar circumstances. I allowed the Russian police to use the due process of law on that occasion and the killer was acquitted on a technicality — which told me the friends of the killer paid the judge more than I.’ Drozdov pushed his thick glasses up to the bridge of his nose. ‘That judge judges no more. So my faith in the law, if I had any to begin with, was not justified and the man who killed my son met a very messy end.’

‘ This is British justice, not Russian justice,’ Henry argued, jolted by hearing such revelations — two admissions of murder in one breath — and feeling powerless to do anything about it.

‘ Then there is an even greater likelihood of failure. If the corrupt Russian system did not convict my son’s killer, how can I hope that a fair and just system will be any different?’

‘ I will ensure it.’

‘ How? Shall I bribe you?’ chuckled Drozdov.

‘ That won’t be necessary,’ Henry said coldly. ‘I will ensure it by means of my skills as a detective and the skills of my team. Your grandson’s killer will be tried and convicted. I guarantee it.’

‘ I’m afraid your guarantee is worthless.’

‘ So you will not do as I ask?’

Drozdov leaned back and closed his eyes. Henry thought he had fallen asleep, but then he said, ‘No, but I will offer you a compromise of sorts. If you arrest the man who killed Nikolai before I get to him, I will allow British justice to run its course. However, if there is an acquittal, he will die; if he is convicted and sent to prison, he will be allowed to serve the term imposed by the court. On his release, he will die, even though by that time I will be dead myself. At ninety-one there are not many years left for anyone, but his death will be my legacy for Nikolai.’

‘ That is not very helpful. You are saying that whatever happens, he is a dead man.’

‘ Yes, that is all I can offer. I am an old man in grief. I want revenge. It is as simple as that.’ He touched Henry’s knee. ‘You are a good man, Henry Christie, but I live in a different world with different values and you should understand that.’

Henry shook his head despondently. It had been worth a try, to get Drozdov on his side, but he had half-expected the response and he wasn’t unduly surprised. The sooner he got back to the MIR the better. He was involved in a race to catch the killer now. He had to make an arrest before Drozdov’s henchmen struck first, and therefore there was not much time to play with. The slow-moving police machine needed a huge kick up the rear.

‘ What information can you give me?’ Henry asked. ‘What, for example, was Nikolai doing in this country, associating with known criminals?’

‘ Furthering business interests is how I would summarise it.’

‘ Did that include murdering Jacky Lee? Is that one of your methods of “furthering interests”, as you put it?’

‘ Do I detect a trace of anger in your voice, Mr Christie?’

‘ What would be the point of anger?’

‘ Exactly. As I said — different values. We work differently to you… and now, I think I am getting tired of this.’

‘ Me too,’ said Henry. ‘This detective here’ — he pointed to Dave Seymour — ‘will take a short statement from you about your identification of Nikolai’s body, then you may go — but I stick what I said earlier: no one should lose a grandson in such circumstances, even if the grandson was deeply involved in violent crime himself. Because of that, I will not falter in my efforts to bring this killer to justice and unravel the sordid goings-on behind it all.’ Henry raised his eyebrows. ‘Different values.’

He got out of the car.

Whilst waiting for Seymour to take the statement, Henry drifted into the mortuary and found himself standing by the fridges in which the bodies were stored. He could not resist pulling out the sliding tray on which Gunk Elphick’s body was resting after the post-mortem. He was wrapped in a linen shroud. Henry looked round to see he wasn’t being watched and unravelled the shroud from around Gunk’s head.

Henry simply wanted to wish him one last thing.

‘ Rot in hell, you evil bastard.’ Childish, he knew. Nor did it achieve anything. But it made him feel much, much better.

With a signal from one motorcyclist to the other, the police escort pulled away from the mortuary. Henry and Dave Seymour watched it leave.

‘ Let’s get back to Headquarters,’ Henry said quickly and climbed into the firm’s Mondeo.

In the back seat of the traffic car, Alexandr Drozdov spoke quietly into the ear of his bodyguard, whispering two words. ‘Yuri Ivankov.’

Less than three-quarters of an hour later, the two detectives drove into police Headquarters. Henry, at the wheel, drove past the front of the HQ building on his right, the sports-field on his left. The grass still bore the charred, vivid scars where the Force helicopter had been destroyed. The wreckage had been removed piecemeal to the Forensic Science Lab down at Euxton, near Chorley, and was being examined by experts there. First indications fed to the MIR were that a couple of grenades were responsible for blowing the machine to smithereens.

Henry drove over the speed ramps too quickly, jarring the unsuspecting Seymour out of his seat, and headed towards the LEC building which had been commandeered by Henry and his Murder Squad — now totalling forty officers and support staff — for the enquiry. He stopped in the yellow hatch markings outside the front door and abandoned the dirty Mondeo there. Inside he went directly to the main room which was being used for the incident. Danny and several others were working away, heads buried in masses of paper.

‘ Danny,’ he called across the room. ‘Got a minute? Pretty urgent.’

She grimaced and held her hands wide as if to say, ‘I am busy, you know.’

‘ Aren’t we all,’ he said. ‘Come on,’ and gestured her out.

‘ OK, boss,’ she said with resignation.

‘ And bring everything,’ he instructed as an afterthought — although he wasn’t specific as to what ‘everything’ actually meant. He ducked out of the room and went to the one he had claimed as his office, throwing his jacket over a chair and helping himself to a coffee from the filter machine. He thudded down into his chair, mind churning.

There was a light knock and Danny entered, carrying a few sheets of printed paper. She clicked the door lock behind her and leaned against the door, adopting a provocative pose.

‘ If you were any sort of boss,’ she pouted, ‘we’d be screwing on that desktop right now.’

Henry perused her from head to toe. His teeth grated together with the memory of her body. He shifted uncomfortably to allow a surge of blood to pass into his loins.

‘ I only have to look at you to get a hard on,’ he said.

‘ And I only have to look at you to want you inside me.’ Breathless.

Henry stood up slowly, maintaining eye-contact with her. He walked towards her. She raised her chin, exposing her long neck, looking down her nose at him with a ‘let’s do it now’ expression.

He stopped inches away from her, his fingers at his trouser fly. Then, unable to maintain the charade, he burst out giggling. She did the same.

There was no way either of them would compromise themselves or their jobs by doing anything so foolish as frolicking in the major incident room. It would have been Henry’s luck to have FB walk in just as he was table-ending Danny across one of the HOLMES consoles.

Danny flicked open the door lock. ‘You look worried,’ she remarked.

He returned to his chair and loosened his tie, about to speak.

‘ Oh, by the way,’ she said before he could begin, ‘FB said he’d be here in an hour for a rundown. To quote a phrase, he said, in typical FB terms, “I’ll want to know when he intends making an arrest and how he intends getting back that twenty million quid — and if he can’t tell me, he might as well pick up his P45 on the way out”.’ Danny mimicked FB’s voice and manner with uncanny accuracy.

Henry drew a breath. He knew FB was going to show at some time that day, having previously made the arrangement with him. ‘We’d better be in a position to tell him something.’

With a flourish, Danny held up the pieces of paper she had brought with her. ‘Maybe these will help.’ She came over to the desk and placed all but one of them carefully in front of him. She watched him as he read.

‘ The stuff from the financial analysts,’ he said, concentrating.

Danny could not keep a wide smile from her face as she enjoyed the jittery feeling in her tummy she got from being with Henry. It was something she had only ever experienced once before — and not with Jack Sands, her previous lover. It was a sensation which told her she was deeply, ecstatically in love.

She closed her eyes, shook her head and opened them again. The feeling had not gone away.

Danny had been poached by Henry to act as the office manager in the MIR, effectively removing her from the triple murder at Blackpool. But because she was well into that, she was also the main liaison between the two enquiries because of the common denominator: Billy Crane.

Over the previous two days she and Henry had worked very closely together, doing sixteen-hour shifts. At the end of each one they had raced — discreetly — back to her house where they had made frantic love. Henry had then gone home to sleep with Kate, dropping exhausted into the marital bed, leaving Danny alone and unhappy.

Maybe once the investigation was over, something would come of the relationship, Danny hoped, but had a horrible premonition it would all end in tears — hers. She wanted Henry badly, so badly she was prepared to live through a difficult separation and divorce to get him. But did he love her enough to commit this sacrifice? There had been occasions during their lovemaking when he had seemed on the verge of saying the three little words, but held back. She was not going to push him, but desperately wanted to hear them whispered in her ear. As soon as the time was right, they needed to sit down and discuss things before the whole scenario blew up in their faces. Danny did not want to enter a difficult relationship without payback.

Henry looked up at her. ‘These are very interesting,’ he remarked. No doubt about it, he thought, financial analysts can make an investigation.

‘ And here’s another one which may be of interest to you.’ She handed him the other sheet of facts and figures, which he started to read. ‘All about Barney Gillrow.’

‘ Wow — you have been busy.’

‘ Yes, I have, and so have the analysts.’

Henry looked across the desk, thinking Danielle Louise Furness was the most breathtakingly beautiful woman he had ever known. Her eyes were to die for. Her lips needed kissing and biting every day without fail. She needed to be made love to frequently. She had to be his.

‘ Remember when we first made love?’ he asked.

She blushed endearingly. ‘How could I forget?’ she said softly.

‘ I was going to tell you something when you very rudely interrupted me by forcing me to make love to you again.’

‘ Oh, I’m sooo sorry,’ she said. ‘What was it?’

‘ I-,’ he began and stopped abruptly when the office door burst open and FB marched in, trumpeting, ‘Right, Henry, come on. What the hell’s going on? Don’t give me any tactical crap. Give me strategy — now. I want the big picture.’

Behind him stood Rupert Davison.

Tenerife was roasting. Loz was sitting under a sunshade on the private roof terrace of Uncle B’s English Bar and Disco, a large whisky in his good hand. He groaned, winced and opened his mouth to feel the loose teeth at the front of his lower jaw. ‘Shit,’ he muttered angrily. He gingerly touched the bridge of his nose which had a bruise right across it, then laid a fingertip gently on the puffed-up left eye, which was swollen and weeping. They were all new injuries to add to the ones which had only just healed up from his previous battering.

He necked the whisky with one gulp and slammed the glass down on the table. Holding his breath against the pain, he unravelled the bandage from his left hand, the one Nero had snacked on. It was a mess, looked infected, greenish. There was a musty stench to it which worried Loz, as did the gradual blackening of his little finger.

In the cage at the other end of the roof, Nero paced relentlessly. Loz stood up and walked over to him. As his previous weapon, the bamboo pole, now layout of reach on the floor of the cage, Loz picked up a broom-handle and shoved it through the mesh, trying to jab at Nero’s flank as the beast walked past. Nero was wise now, however, and easily swerved away with a snarl and clawed the stick. Loz continued to prod and tease, a look of sheer hatred on his face.

‘ Yeah, you heap of crap, nothing you can do now, is there, now your master isn’t here to help you.’ He rammed the stick at Nero’s face; the lion deflected it with a big paw. ‘Look what he’s done to me again.’ Loz pointed at his own face. ‘Bastard. If he thinks I’m looking after you, he’s fucking well wrong. You can starve for all I care, you smelly, mangy piece of meat.’

Loz, tired of the abuse, flicked two good fingers up at Nero and went back to the table.

On it, besides the whisky, was a whole sheaf of British newspapers, going back over the last two days. He picked up a copy of the Mail and read the headlines for the tenth time.?20 MILLION STOLEN: EIGHT DEAD they proclaimed. MASSIVE POLICE HUNT.

The story dominated the whole of the first three pages and contained a photograph of the officer leading the enquiry, DI Henry Christie, and lots of bland quotes from him. There were articles about gangland, the Russian Mafia and suggestions of a link to an earlier multiple killing in Blackpool. A huge reward had been posted by the banks — ?200,000 for information leading to the arrest and conviction etc.

Loz laid the paper out on the table…

The telephone call the day before from Billy Crane had come unexpectedly. Tersely, Crane had instructed Loz to pick him up from Los Rodeos Airport in the north of the island where he had just landed from Madrid. Loz drove there straight away in the Ssang Yong.

Crane looked very tired, had little to say and indulged in no small talk until Loz said conversationally, ‘Had a wee bit of a problem while you were gone, but I’ve sorted it.’

‘ Oh?’ Crane looked stone-face at Loz.

‘ A detective from England came nosing around — a woman.’

Instantly alert, Crane said, ‘When, exactly?’ thinking the cops had moved damn quick to be sniffing around Tenerife already. ‘Two weeks ago, something like that.’

Crane relaxed a little. That was before the robbery, but after the killings in Blackpool. ‘What did she want?’

‘ She didn’t come to see you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Came to see that ex-cop, Gillrow. Something to do with a guy who’d been wasted in Blackpool… can’t remember his name.’

‘ Malcolm Fitch,’ whispered Crane, more to himself than to Loz.

‘ Yeah, that’s the name. He used to be one of Gillrow’s snouts, apparently.’

‘ What did he tell her?’

‘ Nothing, other than to piss off out of it, but he came simpering around to me, shitting bricks about it.’

‘ And?’

‘ As you weren’t here, I sorted it.’

Crane examined Loz’s profile. ‘Sorted it? What does that mean?’

‘ Oh, nothing much — just put the frighteners up her.’

‘ How?’ Crane’s nostrils flared.

‘ Gave her a bit of a slapping and told her to back off — but tactfully, like. Y’know, I wasn’t specific, just made sure she knew what I meant.’ He did not care to admit the truth of the matter in that the slapping had not gone quite as planned and the tables had been turned.

‘ Good, good, well done.’ Crane patted his shoulder. Loz smiled, thinking he had done well. Maybe he had wormed his way back into Crane’s good books.

‘ What have you been up to?’ Loz enquired now that Crane seemed to have chilled out.

‘ This and that,’ he said vaguely.

They drove on in silence for a while until Crane could stand it no longer. He stretched. ‘I could do with a leak. Pull off here, will you? Too much to drink on the plane.’ He pointed to a junction which led up to San Isidro.

Unsuspecting, Loz hung a right, looped off the highway and stopped in an appropriate place. Crane got out, saying, ‘Have a smoke, if you want. I think this’ll be a long one.’ He walked down a slight, rocky incline where he urinated on some bushes that looked like they need the liquid. Behind, Loz leaned against the high vehicle and lit up.

Crane, having finished, came back up the gradient to the car and stood next to Loz for a moment before punching him as hard as he could in the belly. The cigarette shot out of Loz’s lips like a small rocket and he doubled up as the breath whooshed out of him. Crane followed that up with a couple of fist blows to the side of the head which felled him. Then Crane dragged him back to his feet, pinned him against the side of the car and growled, ‘You stupid fucker! You don’t have the sense you were born with, do you? You’ve alerted the cops and warned ‘em off Warned ‘em off! You don’t do that to the cops — they just come back mob-handed, dickhead.’ He drove his knee up into Loz’s groin. A scream of pain came out, but Crane did not let him go, slamming him hard against the car. ‘You have no conception of what you’ve done, have you?’

‘ Billy, why? What’s going on?’ he gasped. ‘I don’t know.’

‘ I’ll tell you, shall I? That fucking girl and her stupid boy friend who lost me fifty grand got taught a lesson. I did ‘em both in. At the same time I did a personal one on another guy who’d caused me grief previously — Malcolm Fitch. Now I’m back having just pulled the biggest fucking all-cash job ever — in which eight people got killed and I walked away with twenty million — and the last thing I want is cops. Does that make sense to you? I’m probably the most wanted fucker in Europe at this moment in time. The only reason I don’t fucking kill you now is that I need you to do something for me. Do you think you can?’

‘ Yeah, yeah, whatever…’

But Crane had not finished his assault. In a final spasm of rage, he head-butted Loz who crumpled to the ground like a sack.

So now here he was, battered and bruised once more, still looking after Nero and keeping an eye on the business while Crane had done a runner to lie low in La Gomera. His boss had left strict instructions for Loz, to inform him immediately if any cops turned up sniffing around, to get some goons to watch the ferry terminal at Los Cristianos for signs of any cops, Spanish or English, and to keep things ticking over — and not to do anything stupid or thoughtless! Crane had said he would always be on the end of a mobile, but just in case he couldn’t be contacted that way, Loz had to e-mail him from the office at Uncle B’s.

The instructions had concluded with an ominous warning for Loz. Since divulging his crimes to him, Crane had had serious misgivings; Loz was a weak and stupid man, wide open to temptation. A liability.

‘ Let me make something very clear to you, old mate,’ Crane said, his eyes never once leaving Loz’s. ‘You know some major shit about me

… am I right?’

Loz swallowed what felt like a rock and nodded dumbly.

Crane spoke the next words slowly, forming them with exaggerated movements of his lips. ‘Don’t do anything you might regret.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Otherwise you are dead — and no-one’ll ever find your body, unless they analyse what comes out of a lion’s arse-hole. Understand?’ he whispered.

But Loz had had enough of the other man pushing him round, beating him up when he felt like it, shoving his hand into Nero’s cage, treating him like a piece of shit. Enough was enough. A man can only take so much. He had his dignity, his basic human rights and they had been well violated. If he, Loz, could handle things just right, there would be nothing to worry about.

‘ This is how it stands.’ Henry was addressing FB and Rupert Davison, though his eyes continually strayed to the latter. Danny sat at the back of the office, looking supportive1y at Henry. ‘We have ascertained by means of the tachograph fitted to the security van that the robbery took place on Lancaster Services on the M6, southbound. A search of the car park found blood on the tarmac and this has since been matched to one of the victims. No witnesses have yet been found, probably because there was a row of builders’ portacabins outside the services themselves which obscured views from the shops across the lorry park.

‘ At the scene of the shooting at the White Lund industrial estate in Morecambe, the forensic people — who have worked their backsides off for us — have matched blood found on two sets of overalls found there with all four of the dead security guards. We can be sure, therefore, that the people found dead at the warehouse are the ones who committed the robbery and murdered the guards. This is further confirmed by the guns found there, too. Ballistic matches have been made with the bullets found in the bodies of the security guards. The owner of the warehouse, a very dodgy importer, who, incidentally, reported the job, hasn’t been very helpful yet, but we’re keeping up the pressure on him. He’ll crack, but I don’t think he was involved directly with the robbery or the shooting afterwards.’

‘ Conclusions so far?’ FB interrupted.

‘ That the robbers had a falling-out over the division of the money, and one or more of them got away with it.’ Henry took a breath. ‘We’ve had some interesting work done by the financial and intelligence analysts, which I’ve just received from Danny. Don Smith, one of the dead villains in the warehouse, seems to have been pretty careless up to a point. We have records of several recent mobile-phone calls to a number in Tenerife and also spending on his credit card for a flight to Tenerife from Manchester and back via Lisbon and Paris.’

‘ Why do you say up to a point?’ FB asked.

‘ Because we haven’t managed to trace his home address yet. The address for his credit cards and telephones relate to a rented office in Blackpool, which is scrupulously clean, a shell,’ Henry explained. ‘What is obvious, therefore, is that a robbery has taken place, there’s been a fall-out big style between the offenders, an OK-corral-style gunfight, and the survivors have skedaddled with the dosh — and these are the people we need to nail.’

FB gave a weary clap. ‘I know that — what I don’t know is what you’re doing about it.’

‘ My best, that’s what.’

‘ Is that going to be good enough?’ FB was tough.

Henry’s mouth tightened. ‘Yes. I’ll catch the bastard or bastards. The link seems to be Tenerife — which is also the link to one of the security guards, a guy called Colin Hodge, who visited the place just a short time before the robbery. We think he was the inside man. The other link is Billy Crane, who has suddenly reappeared on the scene. Danny has had him positively identified as having stayed at the Imperial Hotel on the night of the triple murder in Blackpool, and leaving via Manchester Airport the day after, catching a flight to Lisbon, subsequently connecting to Tenerife. I saw him back in the country’ before the robbery in the company of Elphick, Thompson and Drozdov junior — three of the four dead men at the warehouse. The fourth dead man is Don Smith, of course, long-time associate of Crane’s. And today the fingerprint people have given me some partial idents lifted from a vehicle — not enough for court — putting Crane at the warehouse. There are also some partial prints of his on a pistol found there, which is the same gun that killed two security guards, Thompson, Elphick and Drozdov.

‘ Our next step must be to trace and arrest Billy Crane. He’s the key to all this and he’s got some nooky questions to answer. But the good bit is — if we don’t get to him first — and soon — he’s as dead as a dodo.’

Later, in the gents’ toilets, Rupert Davison was urinating at one of the stalls when Henry slotted in next to him.

‘ Henry, how are you doing? You’ve been avoiding me, haven’t you?’

‘ Like the plague,’ Henry admitted.

‘ I’ll tell you what — that Danny Furness has aged well, hasn’t she? I screwed her, you know?’

‘ Did you really?’ Henry bristled. He began to pee.

‘ Are you still serious about blowing me out over those interview tapes and the like?’

‘ Is that why you’ve come today, to ask me that?’

‘ I was invited by Mr Fanshaw-Bayley, actually, because I have a vested interest in this investigation. Two Manchester villains are dead, plus their Russian pal. You need to keep me sweet so I can ensure your enquiries around Greater Manchester go smoothly.’

‘ Are you saying you would obstruct my officers?’

Davison shrugged. ‘I could ensure they did not get the cooperation they require.’

Henry finished urinating and moved on to the wash-basin. He turned a tap on to a trickle and put his hands under it. ‘That sounds like obstructing the course of justice.’

‘ Does, doesn’t it?’ smirked the Superintendent. He finished and joined Henry by the sinks.

‘ That interview-tapes business — you know you’ll never get anywhere with it, don’t you? My word against a mere Custody Officer. I handed the master tapes over to him — which is actually documented in the custody records of Thompson and Elphick — so I don’t have a great problem there. As regards the working tapes of the interviews, losing them is unfortunate, but it won’t get as far as discipline. Happens all the time to other officers. I’ll probably get mildly rebuked. I can live with that.’

‘ But you did steal and destroy the masters, didn’t you?’ Henry said.

Davison placed his hands under the soap dispenser and then turned on a tap. Henry leaned across and turned it off, coming in close to Davison, eyeball to eyeball.

‘ You did, didn’t you?’ Henry pushed.

A smile crept over Davison’s face. ‘Of course I did.’

Henry took a step away. ‘Have you come here to gloat?’ He put his hands towards the hot air dryer, then changed his mind and went for the roller towel. ‘To tell me not to bother going for you, is that it?’

‘ Not to gloat, Henry — just to ensure that you don’t waste your breath and time on something where you’ll end up with egg on your face,’ he said confidently.,

‘ What happened to the master tapes?’

Wonderfully, Davison came alongside Henry by the towels and spoke in a hoarse, but clear whisper. ‘In a busy custody office, it’s very easy to make things go missing. I went back down a little later and while the Custody Sergeant was tied up booking in prisoners, I helped myself. The tapes are kept on a shelf under the desk until they are collected by the tape librarian, usually the day after. They are destroyed now.’

And so are you, mate, Henry wanted to tell him, but before he could make any sort of response, Davison said, ‘It’s a shame our operation against Thompson and Elphick came to nothing. Unfortunate they bubbled you as a cop, isn’t it?’

Henry’s eyebrows knitted together. Something in Davison’s tone of voice triggered off a warning bell in Henry’s head. ‘You sound like you know something about it?’

Davison uttered a short laugh and moved his wet hands underneath one of the hot air dryers. Henry stepped in and blocked his way before he had a chance to turn it on. ‘Did you tip them off about me?’ he demanded coldly.

Davison and Henry stood face to face for a few tense seconds. ‘What do you think, Henry?’ Davison said without admitting anything. He shouldered Henry out of the way to get to the machine. ‘I’ve got wet hands.’

Henry drew back, repulsed. He stormed out of the toilets and went back to the MIR where FB and Danny were waiting for him. He ripped the miniature tape-recorder out from the small of his back and shoved it into FB’s hands. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘hang the bastard out to dry.’

Their lovemaking took place on the deep pile rug in front of Danny’s living-room gas-fire. It lasted a long time and both experienced a prolonged, satisfying orgasm, leaving them feeling tired and mellow. Henry lay on his back, Danny tucked up on her side next to him, her fingertips tracing lazy circles around his nipples, chest and stomach.

‘ Before we were rudely interrupted by FB, you were going to say something to me — remember?’

He took a deep breath. ‘The only reason I took that under cover job was to get away from you.’

‘ Me — why?’

‘ All that stuff we went through with Jack Sands, all the time I spent with you… I was falling in love with you, Danny. It was doing my skull in. Life at home was getting unbearable because all I could think of was you and wanting to be with you — even though we hadn’t actually done anything like this.’ He indicated their nakedness. ‘I took the U/C job to get away from it all, take a break, get things into perspective. I thought I’d find it was just a silly infatuation, that I was just kidding myself. Wrong! All I could do was think about you — and when I got the chance to come home, what happens? Before going home to Kate, I go into Blackpool nick and see you instead.’

‘ And ask me how to win your wife back — and I suggested shagging her! I really wanted you to shag me.’

He laughed a little. ‘I needed to be sure how I felt about you. I’ve done some crackpot things in my life with other women, Danny, on the pretence of being in love, but I wasn’t. I was just having my ego fuelled. You are different.’ He paused. ‘I love you.’ He waited for a reply.

‘ This could get very complicated,’ Danny said cautiously, but feeling wonderful having heard Henry say the words.

‘ Don’t I know it.’

‘ And unpleasant.’

‘ Yep.’

‘ And costly.’

‘ Oh don’t, now you’re digging a knife into me.’

‘ And people will get hurt.’

‘ I know.’

‘ And we will suffer professionally.’

‘ Yeah.’ He pushed himself up on to one elbow and faced her. ‘You’re talking future tense.’

‘ Yes… all those things will happen. If you want to go for it, then so do I because I love you very much, Henry. I’ve fancied you for years and now I want you for ever, whatever it costs. I love you.’

Henry touched her cheek. They kissed tenderly.

‘ You will have a lot of difficult things to do, Henry, but I promise you I’ll be here for you, however tough it gets. I won’t let you down.’

His pager rang out shrilly from the settee where his trousers had been dumped. He rolled away, glancing at his watch as he did so — it was 10 p.m. — and checked the message. He picked up Danny’s phone and called Control Room, talked to the Duty Inspector, lying back as he conversed. Danny sensuously rubbed her breasts along his rib cage. ‘Thanks,’ he said and hung up. ‘Interesting… we need to get back in. There’s been a development. Crimestoppers have had a call from a male who says he has urgent information about the M6 robbery and that he wants to speak to me — now.’

They dressed quickly and were out of the house minutes later, jumping into their respective cars. Before setting off, Henry leapt out of his and trotted round to Danny in her unrepaired MX-5. ‘Sorry about this,’ he said awkwardly, ‘but I should just phone Kate and let her know.’

‘ Sure.’ She gave him her house keys and waited while he went back in and made the call. ‘Did you dial 141 before dialling your number — you know, so my number is untraceable?’ Danny asked when he gave her the keys back.

‘ No. Oh, shit — no, it’ll be all right.’